


Overmorrow

by Angelas



Category: Soul Calibur
Genre: Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Explicit Sexual Content, Filth, Language, M/M, Slow Burn, someone please help these two communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:43:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas/pseuds/Angelas
Summary: In which Kilik and Grøh cross paths in the forest and fate is a red and mischievous thing.





	Overmorrow

**Author's Note:**

> this was/is a labor of love tbh. ;-; these two are making me crazy and I cannot believe there isn't more of them out there?? anyway. let's change this.  
> all beta credit goes to [my love](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian), who has had to put up with the brunt of my fixation. I love you♡

**oOo**

The skies close. Shadows meet the orange twilight, lengthening the trees across the forest floor. They have traveled far since sunup and stopping soon would be astute. Darker things tromp the nighted grove, this Kilk knows for sure, and though the three of them create a potent force, those fallen to the evil sword’s corruption would not hesitate.

They stick to the map that Maxi’s drawn on parchment. His sense of direction has not yet failed them (and why would it, he supposes, with his many years at sea), and so Kilik has taught himself not to question overly. Another night should get them to the nearest harbor. Two should get them to a town. Kilik surmises for the latter. They’ve run low on rations and forest berries do not fill their bellies anymore. He rolls the map back up. Best to make what’s left of light. He joins up with the others.

 

It often plays like this. Xianghua laughs when Maxi talks, and when Maxi talks, Kilik cannot help but chuckle with her. She skips ahead of them at times—as she is now—walking backwards, grinning, daring he or Maxi to go and race her.

Maxi always goes to race her.

 

It happens when the final strip of sun fades from the wet moss of the wood. Kilik lets his pack slide off his shoulders. A dull stench permeates the air, like spoiled meat and sulphur. He lifts the Kali-Yuga in defense and slowly turns to Maxi. His friend’s hair is blacker in the bluish night. He must smell it, too. His hands are steel around his nunchaku.

Bark snaps. The noise confirms the ambush. They cluster back-to-shoulder and create a triune. Xianaghua’s sword fluctuates inside itself, as if it knew, as if it were made of water. Her attention rivets to the left, where the forest’s density is impossible to look through.

“They’re there,” she says. “I can feel them.”

“They who?” asks Maxi. “How many?”

“Malfested,” she says. “Villagers, several, they’re...”

Her tone is soft, detached and fainter than Kilik’s ever heard it. The fishing town they’d agreed to warn about the Evil Seed’s corruption, likely carnaged, just like at the temple…

Something heavy blisters in his chest. It girds his grip around the Kali-Yuga and digs his feet into the dirt.

“I’ll take the flank,” he says. “I’ll lead them south, I’ll catch up later—”

“Are you fucking nuts, man? They’ll kill you! We have to stick together—”

He sees her. Just for a fraction of a moment he turns his head and sees her—just her—ere the discordant screeching of a dozen men and children. Her sad eyes and soft brown hair, the way she understands his frantic plea to  _trust_  him. The moment ends. He leaps mid-air upon his rod and makes a shouting target of himself along the treeline. Bodies rush at him. He sweeps the first one down, then the second, and someplace through the snarling red-eyed crowd, discerns the way Xianghua yanks Maxi by the arm and pulls him desperately into the bowels of the forest.

 

He weaves through trees and glances back. Four remain. The forked road isn’t far, and he is by no means a huntsman. He must make a stand or the path of his tracks will be lost.

He takes position. The wild screams of the four that followed this far quell to a single, guttural sound. Their voices are broken, the malfestation so deep in their bodies that no chant of purification would help. They emerge from the brush, gaunt and covered in muck. How long ago had their village met slaughter? Two are just children—with all of the pain the curse causes, how could they continue to stand?

He keeps his eyes to the floor, and does not allow himself to look at their faces. Three of them lunge. He sweeps with the tip of his rod. They crash to the floor. Bones crack, but it doesn’t deter them. Bent feet waste no time to approach.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he says, “I don’t want—”

A sudden pang shoots through his side. Heat seeps through his robes. He pummels the back-end of Kali-Yuga on instinct, crushing a skull. The body collapses. He cradles his side. Blood coats his hand like hot water. Five. All along there’d been five.

They leap at him. His vision distorts and he is forced to push forward in lieu of staunching the flow. Thoughts cloud, and in the grapple of fury, barely discerns the splatter that shoots from the mouth of one of the bodies when the side of his rod connects with a harrowing blow. One more, two more. Teeth dot the soil. The last of them charges. He impels with all of his weight and the body slams to the floor. It teeters, a noise full of fluid, but it doesn’t stay down. He backs off, clasping his side, his head, the Kali-Yuga gone limp in his grasp. All is red. The pulse in his skull tightens, beckons, sharpens, how could he, what is he—it was only a child—

Steel meets the skin of his chin.

“Concede.”

The demand is cold, the metal of the blade yet colder. The madness gives way. He reigns enough sense to rebalance his weapon.

“What,” he breathes, “Who are you—”

“It’s in every pore inside you.” The blade subsides, only to fit onto another. “Prove yourself or die, Outsider.”

Kilik’s vision blears, scarcely able to perceive the stranger’s figure. Clad in black, tall and uneager to communicate. He separates his blades and propels forward. Sparks fly. He is barely able to block the attack. The blades the man carries aren’t just show, they scrape against the Kali-Yuga, glinting with blood. Kilik shoves forward, but the stranger is heavy. He musters momentum, creating resistance, but cannot preserve it. Much as he tries, he is losing his footing. There is no way to hide it, if he continues to rely on brute force, he is outmatched.

It’s harder to breathe. The Dvapara-Yuga’s compassion abates abreast the tumult of evil inside him, and without his friends there to ground him—

He snarls, then slides his rod to the side. The stranger meets the incursion with one of his swords.

“Is this all you have?” He scoffs. “Then your fate is decided.”

“Never,” breathes Kilik. His injury throbs. He grits his teeth and pivots his weapon. “Never!”

The man moves just in time, forced to pull back, where Kilik knows he has the advantage. He regains his composure, but his lungs are still spent. He can smell his own blood. He must tend to the wound, he must find the others before they try to find him.

There is little time to prepare. The man is upon him, swords alloted back to their singular form. His advancement is predatory, each blow that he gives delivered to kill. Kilik keeps up, placing distance whenever he can, blocking and stroking the earth to disrupt the man’s constant assault. This is no hireling, no raider, nor an assassin. His verve is that of a knight, his deliveries vicious but carefully planned. He ducks a punitive slash, but almost misses the other. He is so tired—his eyelids falter, colors mesh, to rest, to have a drink of water—

There is a shout, like a warcry, and were it not for Kilik’s years of training his reflex, a good part of the stranger’s blade would have pierced through his shoulder. He hoists the Kali-Yuga with both of his hands and deflects with all of his weight. Once more, a second time, he is slipping, being pushed back, again and _again_ —

Kilik cries out. He breaks through his opponent’s aggression and purposefully leaves himself open so that he may jolt the tail-end of his rod. It’s all that he has. It rids the stranger of one of his blades. Kilik sinks to one knee. The adrenaline fades. He can’t breathe, the pain in his rib is immense.

He looks up, just for one moment. The man stands there, watching. Pale in the light…

Blackness.

**oOo**

He wakes to faint warmth. Is it day? Is he dead? He stirs and understands that he is sitting...somewhere. His head is a rock and everything hurts, but he is alive.

He blinks, attempting to focus. A small fire crackles before him. His fingers rouse and tangle with earth. He is yet in the forest, and there is someone there with him, face illumined by the glow of the flame.

It’s him. The stranger. He can tell by the glint of his gauntlet, the hair streaked with blue, the dark fur on the hood of his jacket. He...had to have brought him here. Kilik tries to sit up, but the gouge in his rib does not let him.

“Wha—where, what are you doing…?”

The stranger gets to his feet, only to seat himself closer. Unarmed, he is no less imposing. He reaches, right hand ungloved. Kilik immediately flinches. The man glares. His eyes are so pale.

“If I allow you to bleed, you will be a danger to others.”

He reaches once more. Kilik takes note of the needle and gauze. They’re lathered in ointment, smelling of salve. Kilik blinks. Is he... _helping_  him?

“Do not think I won’t kill you.” It’s dour with threat. “Keep still.”

Cold oil, cold pain. Kilik squeezes his eyes shut and winces the opposite way. The suture is callous but quick. He opens an eye and peeks when the gauze is being daubed to his skin. The stranger’s eyepiece is gone, affirming the three scars over his eye, healed but contorted. The rest of him is...eccentrically smooth, white neck and elegant fingers. He is not from here. Pressure meets with the heart of the wound. Kilik stifles a groan.

“Infection won’t happen, unless it is opened before it can heal.”

With that, the man moves to where he’d previously sat. He gives to the fire. Kilik just stares. The Kali-Yuga rests an arm’s reach away, placed where Kilik would be able to draw it.

“Thank you,” he says. “I would repay you, pay you, but—”

“Do you travel alone?”

“Uh.” He looks to his lap. “Yeah. I do. Do you?”

“Only an idiot would haggle these woods without purpose.” He turns, and his expression is as grim as his voice. “My intel rings true. You seek Soul Edge, and the monster who currently wields it.” He pauses. “I will tell you one thing. He is at the castle called Ostrheinsburg. He attempts to bolster his forces. You will find him there.”

“What?” Kilik’s brow knits. “What intel? How do you know where he is?”

The man answers nothing.

“Who are you? Were you following me? Is that why  _this_ came out of nowhere?” He gestures the wound. “Hey! I’m talking to you—”

“Do not forget, you live on my whim. I suggest you favor such whim—”

“I was already wounded,” snaps Kilik, “and those kids, that means you watched, you watched and did  _nothing_ —” He shakes his head. It crawls through his skin and it hurts. To know what he did, to even look back— “Look,” he swallows. “I’m grateful. I’m just…”

He glances. The stranger’s hand hovers over his blade. Kilik’s no fool. His body would give the moment he attempted to get to his feet, and the suture would open. He takes a deep breath.

“I’m Kilik,” he says.

“...Grøh.”

“Grøh,” he repeats. “That’s unique.”

The remark earns him a glare. He rests his head back. The air is so crisp.

“You fight good.”

“...Hn.”

A draft passes through. It rouses the fire and rustles the verdure they sit on. Small petals land on his thigh. Kilik looks up. There are plums in the trees.

**oOo**

Birds croon. Light winnows its way through the gaps of the canopy. Kilik startles awake. It hits like a kick to the face: Xianghua and Maxi, they must be wired with worry, they must still be out there searching for him—

He stands. The aches are an afterthought. He spins on his heel and sees that Grøh is well in the process of leaving.

“Wait!” shouts Kilik, but the man does not stop. “Wai—I said  _wait_ —”

He stops. The cusp of his blade gleams in the dawn.

“You’re—you are on your own, right? So you know this place. Please, there were others with me. I need to find them—”

“You lied.”

“Yes!” says Kilik, “Yes, I lied—” He steps closer. Grøh’s shoulders widen in warning. “They’re my friends. You attacked me, I thought I couldn’t trust you—”

“Trust?” he scoffs. “I could kill you now.”

“Then do it.” It’s impulse. He unhands the Kali-Yuga. It lands in the duff. “Go ahead. Kill me. You talk about it so much, so kill me.”

It’s more than enough. Grøh storms his way. He knots his fist into Kilik’s robes and slams him onto a tree. Leaves scatter, twigs fall. This close, Grøh is taller than he can recall. He can’t move. Grøh’s grasp is cold steel.

“You’re not a killer,” rasps Kilik, “we want the same thing—”

“You have no  _idea_  what I want—”

The pressure grows harsher. Grøh’s nostrils flare, mouth a stark line. Still, Kilik doesn’t fight back. He fixates ahead, refusing to look any other direction. Color stirs from under Grøh’s collar. Kilik blinks through the stricture. Is that… is he  _flushing?_

Suddenly, Grøh backs away. Kilik grabs at his throat and wheezes for air.

“Annoying.”

It’s not as harsh as it could be. Kilik grabs for his weapon and hurries to follow behind him.

 

He moves with intent. He pauses at times, as if to gather the course of the sky, only to keep pushing forward. He’s fast. Were it not for the occasional snap of the forest’s dense litterfall, his stride would attune with the noise of the trees.

“Did you find something?” asks Kilik. It’s huffed. Though the pain intermits, it’s tough to keep up. “Can I help? Are you even—”

Grøh stops. He sinks his weapon into the sod and lowers himself to his haunches. The leather parts of his armor creak in the silence.

“It misaligns.” He stands. “And the soil is wet. Whoever your friends are, they are losing their patience.”

Grøh’s look is stern. The sun limns his face. His eyes could be white in this light, his mouth is tinged with the treacherous chill of the air.

“What.”

“Nothing.”

Grøh glares.

“I’ve just…” Kilik lets out a breath. “Never met someone like you. That’s all.”

It isn’t a lie, in all of his tie-ins and travels, he would know if he had. Grøh looks away.

“Perhaps your friends were wise in cutting you from the group.”

It’s low, and a little offbeat. Like the sort of tone Xianghua gets in her voice whenever Maxi catches her licking berry-stains off of her wrist.

Kilik swallows his smile.

**oOo**

The sun does not last. The forest feels to grow on its own as if cursed (and it is, from all that he’s heard at the ports), the canopy thickened so that the hour is shrouded from view. All looks the same,  _would_  be the same, were it not for Grøh’s unsociable guidance. A strict distance separates them, as well as a lack of response to any and each of Kilik’s attempts to understand where they are going, if perhaps he has found anything, if he is even actually  _looking_ —

“Are you truly convinced?” It’s sudden. The tails of Grøh’s coat lurch to a halt. “That the three of you will be enough to defeat him?”

“How did you—” He shakes his head. Of course he would know. From what he has gleaned, Grøh’s tracking ability could eclipse any of Maxi’s. “...Yes. I know that we will.”

It’s dark, but Kilik can see the way Grøh’s fingers fold into fists.

“You are an Outsider. Your demise insures order. How could you be so sure?”

“If the corruption outdid me, Xianghua and Maxi, they know they can’t save me. Our bond is strong, they wouldn’t hesitate to put me down.” He may not feel it now, but the meer recapture of the malfestation that had for a moment engulfed him erodes at the fore of his mind. “I trust them. They are powerful without me.”

“Hmph. Relying on others to chasten your misstep, how low to gamble on  _weakness_ —” It’s louder than Kilik has heard him, the last of it gnarled through teeth. Kilik steps closer.

“You disagree with all that I say and go on about weakness, yet you spare my life and tend to my wound—” He pauses. “You fought him, didn’t you? Nightmare. You fought him and lost.”

It’s far past suspicion. The gauntlet he wears, a no small weight he must levy, attunes to the scars of his eye. He minded that arm during battle, an ulterior focus he fostered throughout, forfeiting speed, more use of the coupled attacks which forced Kilik into a corner. Grøh’s expression contorts in abhorrence.

“You are on your own.”

“You hate it,” calls Kilik. “You hate that you lost, but you hate yourself more.”

“You cross a fine line.”

“One we’ve both crossed.” Kilik grasps the Dvapara-Yuga, its compassion ever warm in his hand. “Without this, without that thing on your arm, our differences die.”

Grøh draws his sword. He approaches and its silvery tip is like ice being dug into the nerve of the wound. A hair-trigger more, and the flesh would reopen.

“You have a big mouth, for a monk.”

Pressure amounts. This time, Kilik deflects him. The rotary action swaps their positions. Now it is Grøh who stands with his back to the rockface.

“I don’t want to fight.”

“Afraid you will lose?”

Grøh goes for the haft of his weapon, to make two of one like before, but Kilik buffets his wrist with the tip of his rod. It stymies his guard. A second attempt, and Kilik levels Kali-Yuga with both of his hands, wasting no time to trammel him back. Loose dirt clouds their feet. It takes all of Kilik’s weight and propulsion, but Grøh’s back finally meets with the rock. His breath is strained, it swells at his chest. They are so close now.

“You didn’t have to help me,” pants Kilik. “You don’t even have to be where you are.”

It’s true. He makes no move, nor does he struggle. He is taller, uninjured. Kilik searches his face. In the gathering night, Grøh’s lips are a bow. His jaw is cusped, his shoulders span to broaden his figure, yet his lashes are long and the length of his hair softens his features. A thin film of sweat dampens his neck. Kilik swallows. He cannot stop staring.

“You...” he whispers, “could stop this, all along you could stop this, so why…”

He leans, and feels with his leg that Grøh is hard between his thighs. Heat flicks through his spine. He can hear the hitch in Grøh’s breathing, the soft noise he makes when Kilik slowly angles in towards him. Their mouths meet, ghosting, only just touching. Grøh’s skin is warm, his lips are soft and the taste is both sweet and like nothing exactly. Grøh doesn’t move. His hands are flat on the rockface. Unsure, Kilik starts to withdraw. Grøh shifts his hips. They push against Kilik’s. He opens his mouth with a sigh and all hesitation disperses.

It’s quiet at first, frail as a secret. There is only their breath, the darkening lull of the shadows around them. Kilik lets his hand glide to Grøh’s hip. He squeezes, then opens an eye. Grøh’s own are shut. His face is so pretty. White stone come alive in the azureous light. He pulls from the kiss. His hand drifts; it looms on Grøh’s hardness. He presses down gently and a groan lets from Grøh’s throat. He strains to the the left, hiding away his expression. His chest falls and rises. He’s harder now, twinging sporadically. Kilik swallows. He opens his palm and strokes up and down. Thrill builds. He cannot recall the last time he’s done this, if not to himself whenever Xianghua and Maxi slept in separate inn rooms.

“Do…do you feel good? Should I stop?”

“Shut up,” it’s less than a whisper, “ah— _ah_ —”

The heady sound is enough. Kilik feels himself begin to respond. Blood swells below. He grabs for Grøh’s belt and undoes the zip of his uniform. His cock springs free. It’s flushed, heavy and stiff, and the tip is coated with pre-come. Kilik takes him in hand. The back of Grøh’s head meets with the rock. His face is red, his fingers claw at the rockface. His gaze traces Kilik, his chest, then lower to where Kilik has begun to caress him. He bites on his lip, a glint of white teeth. The sight is a whiplash of heat and Kilik is helpless not to obey it.

He loosens his robes just enough to let himself free. He strokes himself languidly, once and then twice, and watches Grøh watch when he takes hold of both of their cocks. He grasps both at the shaft, creating wet friction. Grøh’s eyes are hazed. Kilik pumps faster. He feels hot. Shapes sharpen, colors are brighter. He can think of nothing but being inside him, of tasting his lips, of fucking and touching and  _having_ —

He catches Grøh’s mouth in a kiss and tugs the hem of his pants farther down. The fabric bundles at the top of his thighs. Grøh doesn’t stop him.

“I’m sorry,” breathes Kilik, “I want you, I want you so bad—”

He urges Grøh’s hip. He does not have to say it, Grøh turns on his own. His cheek meets the stone and Kilik presses against him. He is so soft. His neck is damp, white flesh imbued with the leather scent of his jacket. He reaches below and cups both globes in his hands. His cock lifts to full mast. He aligns himself slowly, smearing Grøh’s entrance in a bid to relax him. The initial heat is exquisite. He swallows, then starts to gently push through. Grøh makes no noise, but Kilik can feel him press back, as if demanding he hurry.

He hurries. He leans and sinks his face into the crook of Grøh’s neck. He prods further in, fucking with the first inch of his cock in an attempt to make the slide smoother. Kilik’s nerves are on fire. Grøh takes him in like a glove, his insides desperately tuning to the girth that Kilik opens him with.

“It’s...so good,” he hushers, “I-I can’t...”

He thrusts forward, burying himself at least half of the way. Grøh spasms on him, tight and too wet. A soft moan slips from his throat. The sound only makes the world sharper. Kilik wrenches him in by the waist, and with a single nip to Grøh’s ear, begins to properly fuck him.

He sweeps with his hips. Flesh snaps with flesh. The glide is slick and practically effortless, Grøh’s insides suck Kilik right in. He looks down, overcome with the urge to survey him, and bunches the tails of Grøh’s coat to the side. He sees how Grøh takes him, how his inner thighs touch and how his spine bends to better receive the fucking that is being given to him. He reaches, caressing the dip of his back with his hand before finally sheathing inside him.

Warm. So warm. Tight like a fist. A faint sigh slips from Grøh’s lips. Kilik eases back out, then in, deeper and longer—again and again. White strands of hair stick to the side of Grøh’s face. His red mouth is parted and his eyes have started to roll. The sight is almost too much. Kilik’s breath shortens, the coil of orgasm beginning to twist with each passing moment of shoving inside him.

Thoughts mesh. He braces his hand on the stone and fucks harder. Slick drips from Grøh's hole. It’s enough to make Kilik’s skin come alive with an itch. Something dark blots at the fore of his mind. Violent, quiet. He takes Grøh in his fist, slathering him before stroking—once, twice—till at last he circles the tip with his palm and hot fluid douses his fingers. Grøh slackens against him, pale and undone. Kilik comes, too. His spend wells from their fucking, smearing Grøh at the back of his thigh.

Time sheds. Kilik leans, resting his head into the moon of Grøh’s neck. He can hear Grøh’s heartbeat echo his own, can feel his warm breath in his hair. He could have him again— _wants to again_. He quelches the thoughts. The blackness gives way.

A lake laps on the other side of the bluff. The stars gleam ahead. It is only the two of them.

 

Grøh is the first to make distance.

He adjusts his clothing, then goes on his own to assemble a fire. They don’t speak. The kindling lifts. Far as they are, Kilik can see the flinch in Grøh’s face when he finally sits. Wind combs the flame. Kilik’s eyelids feel heavy. He sinks to the grass, resting his back onto the trunk of a Fraxinus tree. He can still feel him, his hair, the dark fur of his jacket brushing against him as the world flickers away.

**oOo**

He wakes to faint voices. Xianghua. Then Maxi. It’s without question; he would know those voices even if he were drowning in water.

He shoots to his feet, eyes wide and Kali-Yuga at ready. Early light blinks from the cracks of the canopy. Excitement sparks in his heart. He looks to the left and sees that Grøh has long risen from rest.

“They’re here,” beams Kilik, “it’s them—they’re okay—” He goes to him, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Thank you, I wouldn’t have found them without you. If there’s any way,  _anything_  at all that we could give you—”

Grøh doesn’t speak. He grabs his blade from its place in the sod and turns on his heel.

“Hey,  _hey_ —”

Grøh shoves Kilik’s hand off his shoulder. His eyes are different. Cold, ice-white, and nothing like the evening before.

Kilik lets his arm drop.

“You...don’t have to be on your own. You could come with us. Xianghua and Maxi, they’re good people—”

“I travel alone.”

“I thought I did, too. For a while.” He looks up. “And so—”

“I am not like you.” He pauses. “Or your friends.”

His words are sharp, the last word is sharper. Kilik searches his face, but there is nothing to find. Like they’d first met, he is indecipherable. Kilik nods, stepping back as a way to make space.

“Thank you,” he says, and his tone is sincere. “For everything. I owe you my life.” He looks at him. He is like a knight even now, borne into clarity by the glare of the sun. “Good luck on your travels...Grøh.”

“Hn.”

He leaves, fading into the winding dells of the fen. 

 

* * *

 

Stars dim. The moon is a gash in the sky, its light dulled by the umbrage. A disease builds from the roots in the soil. The smell of death nears. The grove ends; Grøh stops at the opening.

Corpses. Those five slain by the monk—one of which had nearly dug its knife in his gut—molder and rot away with the earth. He treads closer. Something snaps under his foot. He crouches and sees that a gleam protrudes from the dirt.

He reaches, culling the object into his palm. Amber stones fall from a string. No. They are beads meant for prayer, trussed at the end with a silk yellow tassel. Grøh stands. The beads are Tibetan. Several drop from his palm. The ones that remain are opaque from use, some of them flatter. ...Kilik’s. The shape of a lotus chisels the seal. What would an imprudent monk pray so much for, want so much for, _why pray at all_ —

Grøh glares. His fingers start to compress, but the anger slowly withers away. The string seems barren. There are so few of them left. He swallows, and does not realize he swallows. The night is so still. He can hear his own breath. Another bead tumbles. His wrist won’t stop moving.

He pockets the beads. And in the blackening pall, alone and concealed by the fog, hoists Arondight and turns back, again to where fate may reward a second mistake.

**oOo**

 


End file.
